whatever, and what you say must be right."

There was such an insidious mixture of flattery and sarcasm in her
words that, for a moment Ebben was at a loss what to answer, so Malen,
the milkmaid, took the opportunity of changing the subject.

"There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," she said, "ready for
the Sassiwn. Jini 'bakkare' has two sacks of flour to bake, and
there's seven other women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity."

"At Morfa," said Shanw, "they have killed a cow and a sheep; and the
tongues, and fowls, and hams will fill every oven in the parish."

Betto sniffed and tossed her head scornfully. "They may well give them
bread and meat," she said, "for I don't see what else they have to give
them."

"What else, indeed," said Shanw, ready for the frequent fray. "They
won't have your hum-drum old church fregot[3], perhaps, but you come
and see, and hear Hughes Bangor, Price Merthyr, Jones Welshpool.
Nothing to give them, indeed! Why, Price Merthyr would send your old
red velvet cushion at church flying into smithireens in five minutes.
Haven't I heard him. He begins soft and low, like a cat purring on the
hearth, and then he gets louder and louder, till he ends like a roaring
lion. And our own preacher, Essec Powell, to begin and finish the
meeting. There's busy Valmai must be. Marged Hughes is there to help,
and she says--"

"Oh, be quiet," said Betto, "and go along with your Valmai, and your
Price Merthyr, and your hams, and lions, and things. Ach y fi! I
don't want to hear about such things in a clergyman's house."

"Valmai is a beauty, whatever," said Dye, the ploughboy. "I kiwked[4]
at her over the hedge this morning when she was going to Caer Madoc;
she's as pretty as an angel. Have you ever seen her, Ser?"

"Valmai," said Cardo, prevaricating, "surely that is a new name in this
neighbourhood?"

"Yes, she is Essec Powell's niece come home from over the sea. She is
an orphan, and they say the old man is keeping her reading and reading
to him all day till she is fair tired, poor thing."

"Well, it is getting late," said Cardo, "good-night." And his rising
was the signal for them all to disperse, the men servants going to
their beds over the hay loft or stable; while the women, leaving their
wooden shoes at the bottom, followed each other with soft tread up the
creaking back stairs.

In the study the Vicar poured over his books, as he translated from
English into We